


Everything Bulletproof

by feverbeats



Series: Bulletproof [1]
Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-18
Updated: 2010-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He runs a hand through his close-cropped hair and thinks of Archy silently and patiently cutting it for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Bulletproof

**Author's Note:**

> LISTEN TO "BULLETPROOF HEART" A BILLION TIMES, PUT IT IN A BLENDER WITH _ROCKNROLLA_.

Len’s kid is breaking things again. It ain’t exactly a shock, as that’s standard these days, and Archy’s just thankful it’s not limbs this time. He sighs. He wishes he could talk to the kid, but he’s not really any better than Lenny at these things. Well. Maybe a little. Better at controlling his temper, anyhow. “You need to fucking get ahold of yourself, Jenny,” he says, wresting a record from her hands. He doesn’t like swearing at her, but he’s quite steamed.

“I _told_ you,” she hisses, blinking at him through muddied mascara. “It’s John now.”

Archy clears his throat, about to say something, but Len’s already given her enough of a rough time today, and telling her to cut it out won’t stop her breaking things. “All right, then. Have it your way. Give us that picture frame.”

She twists the thing in her hands, which are trembling. “ _Come_ on, Uncle Arch. The old bastard won’t miss it. I’ve smashed up enough of his stuff in my time.”

As if she’s fucking ancient. She sounds like she’s on something. Looks it, too, from the bloodshot eyes and blown pupils. She combs a hand through her hacked-short hair and looks wildly around the room, probably for something else to break.

“Jenny—” Archy stops himself. “John.”

She looks at him, and she’s fucking _shaking_.

He would love to tell her something about how he’s not going to indulge this silliness, not any more than he indulged her playing guitar too loudly, but she’s had enough of that from Len. Sometimes he feels as though he’s ended up being a mother to the girl—the kid. “Just put that down and we’ll have a chat, yeah?”

“You’re acting as if it’s a gun, Uncle,” she laughs, but she tosses the picture frame onto an armchair.

Archy moves with exaggerated care, sitting in the chair next to Len’s desk. The kid, of course, flings herself down behind the desk and sticks her feet up on it. She’s wearing boots that look like they’re for kicking people.

“So,” Archy says.

“So,” she echoes, raising her eyebrows.

Having a rough time or not, she really is a little shit. “Look,” Archy says wearily, “You know I don’t approve of how Len treats you all the time. But you don’t make life easy for him. If you keep acting out—And I don’t think it’s right, belting a girl like that, but he’s your dad and—”

“You don’t pay very good attention, do you, Arch? It’s a wonder you’ve done as well for yourself as you have. You’re missing a few important things here.”

“Yeah?” Sometimes he’s got to be patient while she gets to the point.

“Yeah. Number one, he ain’t my dad. He’s my stepdad. Number two, I’m not a fucking girl. As I’ve been telling Len.” She glances thoughtfully at an inkwell on the desk.

Archy leans over to move it out of reach. “You sure you’re not just causing trouble? You know you do that.”

She laughs raggedly, and Archy wants to wince at the sound. “I know it. I’m sort of worthless. But I’m not fucking about, Arch, really.” She wipes her eyes viciously with the back of her hand, smearing mascara across her face.

Arch pauses. He honestly doesn’t know what to say. “Shouldn’t wear mascara, then,” he tries finally, half-jokingly.

She laughs. “All rockers wear this shit.”

“Mm. And you’ve fucked up your hair, John. Ought to let me give it a trim.”

She gets that stupid, starved look in her eyes that she always gets when he’s kind, the one that makes her look like a wild animal about to bite. Which she often does. “. . . Yeah? Okay.”

Reducing her to short sentences is something of a difficult skill to master, so Archy counts that as a win. “And if I call you John, will you quit it with ruining your dad’s stuff?”

She chews her lip. “We can negotiate.”

*

There are times when John finds himself wishing he hadn’t alienated all his friends, because he could really use someone to help him with these bandages. For once, he’s not taking care of a grievous injury given himself in order to bleed on Len’s furniture, he’s just wrapping up his chest. He wraps it tight enough that he can’t breathe right before he’s satisfied. See if they let him go back to that fucking girls’ school like this.

He reaches under his mattress to feel for the things he keeps there to remind him there are always options. His hand brushes the cool metal of the gun and the envelope that holds the money he’s been nicking from Len.

Sometimes he thinks he’d just like get out the gun and take care of Lenny with it, only Archy wouldn’t like that, and John’s already caused him enough trouble. He runs a hand through his close-cropped hair and thinks of Archy silently and patiently cutting it for him.

He wants more than Archy humoring him, though. He keeps being sharp and awful and Archy keeps shoving him back gently and putting him back together. It’s not what he wants. He doesn’t want gentle, for starters.

He’s been forbidden, he’s reasonably sure, from hanging around the Speeler, but this happens on a regular basis, and he can’t remember who made the rule this time. It doesn’t much matter, though. He lives to break Lenny’s rules and Fred is quick to forgive and forget. John pulls a shirt on over the bandages and heads out.

He walks in, oversized boots, oversized sunglasses, and too-tight shirt.

One Two whistles through his teeth. “What’s this, Jen? You’re looking a bit rough today.”

John flings himself down across from the Wild Bunch, making sure to accidentally kick their new pet, Bob, in the leg. “We’ve been over this, One Two. ‘M not _going_ by Jen anymore.”

“John,” Bob says, nodding amicably. Oh, John could kill him.

“Right,” One Two says, tapping the side of his nose like he’s indulging an adorable joke. He’s often like that with John. John bets he’d back off a little if he got punched in the face.

“Your hair’s exciting, anyway,” Fred says from behind the bar. “How’d Len take to that?”

“Loved it,” John answers, grinning despite himself. Fred’s all right. He doesn’t give a shit about people’s business.

One Two reaches out and ruffles John’s hair. “Told you she was sweet as anything, Bob.”

“Sweet? He looks like he’s ready to take your arm off,” Bob says placidly.

John feels like he’s been punched. He’s never gotten anyone to do that before. He really, really hates Bob.

*

“That _fucking child_ has got blue dye all over my bathroom! I want it dealt with.”

It’s a fine start to Archy’s morning, as usual. He doesn’t know why the hell Lenny can’t handle it himself, but he’s not complaining. He’d rather take care of some dye than bruises. Then he remembers Lenny’s got a meet today and is very nearly upset. So that’s how it’s going to be. Len goes on meets with someone else for backup while Archy gets saddled with babysitting. Jenny’s going to catch it this time.

But when he finds her in her room, sitting on the floor with a Sex Pistols record on and looking tragic, he can’t quite bring himself to shout at her.

She still reeks of ammonia and her hair’s still fluffy from being toweled off. It is indeed blue, and it’s stiff from being dyed, so it sticks up slightly. She’s got sharpie on the back of her arm that reads “pretty little faggot” and she’s sucking a strip of some sort of gelatinous candy.

“There a reason you’ve splashed your hair dye all over Len’s expensive porcelain sink?” Archy asks, ignoring all the evidence that she’s about to act out.

She looks up, mascara thicker than usual. “I was going to clean it up.”

That’s a lie if he’s ever heard one. “No, you fucking weren’t. You’ve got to stop doing this sort of thing, Johnny.”

Her eyes practically glaze over. “ _Johnny_. I like that. It’s cute.”

Archy shrugs, faintly pleased that he’s found something that _doesn’t_ set her off. “Not the point. Your dad—Your stepdad, he isn’t happy.” It’s always a gamble if the two of them are accepting each other as family on any given day.

“ _I’m_ not happy,” she says.

Archy doesn’t know how to deal with her. Never has. “Come on, get up off the floor at least. We’ll talk about it.”

She gets to her feet shakily, her hair the only spot of color in the room. “Great. Let’s talk. Let’s work the whole thing out, how surely I didn’t _mean_ to fuck up yet another thing of Len’s, and how he probably didn’t mean to break my arm last winter—Let’s talk about that.”

Archy frowns. Len told him Jen broke her arm at school. Why Lenny feels the need to _lie_ about it is beyond him. It’s not like he doesn’t know. “Don’t make this about Len,” he says, because what else can he, in good conscience, say? She’s done something wrong, that’s all, and she needs to face up to it.

“Fine,” she says, “We’ll make it about you.” She takes two deliberate steps forward, and that should be Archy’s cue to start getting nervous. “In fact,” she continues, “That’s generally what it’s about.”

Now she’s really in his personal space, and he’s having none of it. “Jenny,” he says warningly.

She blinks like he’s fucking _slapped_ her. “I told you—”

“Sorry, right, John,” he says in what he hopes is a conciliatory tone. “Why don’t you just settle down and—”

Sometimes he forgets the things that trigger her into doing especially stupid things. When she kisses him, he remembers.

He shoves her back a little harder than necessarily. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Are you stupid?” she drawls, but she looks thrown.

“You’re fifteen, John. _Fifteen._ ” Besides, Len would _kill_ him. For a variety of reasons.

She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I know what I want.” Her eyes flicker with fear, though, bright and wide.

Archy shakes his head. “Besides, you know I ain’t that way inclined.” Joking usually defuses things.

“You’re not _listening_ ,” she all but spits. “I’m not a bloody girl.”

Archy freezes. “John, this thing—It’s not about _me_ , is it?” He’s too horrified to mess about.

She laughs. “Don’t flatter yourself. I mean, I’m pretty fucking hung up on you, but I’ve known I was one of the lads since I was about four.”

It’s so difficult for Archy to take this seriously. She’s done so many other mad things. “All right,” he says, feeling incredibly fucking old. “If I start treating you like a boy and that, will you forget the other thing?”

The trouble with Johnny is that she’s too good at negotiation.

*

When Johnny runs away from home, he doesn’t think anyone will miss him. He’s got smoke in his lungs and bruises along his ribs, and he’s going to get fucking _famous_.

The first thing he does is get out of London. He’s not opposed to returning, but he needs some space, especially as he’s stolen Len’s car. It’s not the first time, but it’s the first time he hasn’t crashed it on purpose immediately afterwards.

He’s got to be back in a week, anyhow, ‘cause his band needs him. For now, though, he’s got Len’s car and a pocket full of Len’s money. The irony does not escape him, thanks.

In the passenger’s seat, Pete in biting his nails. “Going a bit fast, John.”

Pete has never called Johnny _Jenny_ in his life.

“Sorry,” Johnny says, stomping on the accelerator. He’s got a heap of potential lyrics crowding around the inside of his head, and it’s giving him a headache. It feels nice. He tries explaining this to Pete, whose knuckles have gone white on the door handle.

Pete shakes his head miserably. “I don’t understand why you like feeling bad, Sing-Along.”

Oh yeah, that cute little nickname. It makes Johnny grin whenever he hears it. “There’s a word for that, Pete, my friend. And believe me, I’ve got masochism down to an art at this point. Both emotional and otherwise.”

Pete opens his mouth, probably to say something about how he doesn’t think that sounds like any fun, but Johnny leans over and kisses him.

Pete’s eyes shut immediately, despite the fact that Johnny’s barely staying on the road.

Johnny kisses Pete, feeling as though his guts have been scraped out and shoved into his head. He usually only feels this way when he’s high or needs to get high, and his breath hitches a little. It’s a fucking rotten kiss, but Pete’s fingers are at Johnny’s wrist and his hand’s on Johnny’s knee and he’s never called him Jenny.

Johnny pulls away after a moment, watching the road again. “You’re quite a good kisser, Pedro.”

“That’s not my name,” Pete says, managing to sound both apologetic and irritated, as usual.

As usual, Johnny ignores him.

*

 _Johnny Quid and the Quid-Lickers top charts with new single_ , reads the magazine cover.

Archy blinks at it for a few seconds before recognizing John. He knew she’d picked out that silly name, but she looks so different. She’s wearing an obscenely garish jacket and too-tight jeans, and one of the kids she used to bum around with is draped all over her. Her bassist, Archy realizes, flipping to the article.

 _Quid and his motley crew have taken the London rock scene by storm . . ._

“His?” Archy mutters. Fine, all right. There are weirder things in the world of rock ‘n’ roll, after all. Lenny won’t like it, of course. He never likes anything the boy does. Archy frowns. The boy. Natural as anything. Which, he supposes, is what John wanted all along.

*

“You should have told us.” Roman sounds accusing, which is his natural state, at least whenever Johnny sees him.

“And why’s that?” Johnny asks. His feet are up on the edge of Mickey’s chair and he’s been up since early, going over the tabloids.

“Because then we would have been equipped to _handle_ this,” Roman snaps. “Instead, you wait for the fucking newspapers to get ahold of it? What were you thinking?”

“Yeah, as if he’s ever thinking,” Mickey says, giving Johnny’s boots a shove.

Roman waves something Johnny’s probably already read in his face. “ _Look_ at this.”

Johnny glances at it casually. “’Singer Johnny Quid’s past as a woman!’ Well, it’s a bit on the nose, but other than that . . .” It’s nicer than most of what he’s read today.

“It’s a disaster,” Roman says, clearly not to Johnny, who doesn’t care.

“We’ll deal with it.” Mickey sighs and stands up. “We’ve just gotta spin this right. Somehow.”

Johnny shrugs moodily. “You’re starting to depress me. Didn’t know you Americans got so wound up over this rubbish.”

“Now,” Mickey says, “You know we don’t care either way. But a scandal is exactly what we don’t need right now.”

In Johnny’s opinion, a scandal is _always_ what’s needed. Whoever ratted him out to the papers is going to find out they’ve done him a massive favor. Anything he can blow up is something he can use. “I’ve got a plan,” he says, and he gives Roman and Mickey a smile with teeth in it.

After that evening’s show, Johnny just turns his phone off. Stripping naked on stage and calling everyone a motherfucker is very nearly standard practice in the world of rock ‘n’ roll, so he’s not sure why Mickey’s called him six times already. He gives his ratty sofa a kick, feeling moody and frustrated. Pete’s out for the evening, as it happens. It figures the one time Pete _ever_ goes out is the time Johnny needs someone to abuse.

Oh yeah, he’s seeing Pete now. That bit’s important. Pete, who didn’t say a word when Johnny’s clothes came off the first time.

He flips his phone open and thumbs it on, more curious than apprehensive, as always. Sixteen new voicemails. Fuck.

He goes through them all, deleting most of them in the first few seconds, until he hears Archy’s voice and stops in surprise.

“Evening, John. It’s Arch. We saw you on telly this evening.” He sounds quite amused. “Well, parts of you. They’d edited it a bit, of course. I know we haven’t talked in a while, but—” There’s a brief pause like he doesn’t know what to say. “Well, I thought I’d make sure you were all in one piece. You know we miss you here, yeah?” There’s a slightly longer silence and then it goes to the next message.

Johnny’s heart feels like it’s beating in his throat. Of course, _We miss you_ means _I miss you_ , because while Archy’s often tried to speak for Johnny’s stepdad before, it’s never been all that believable. He’s hit by a sudden wave of what would be homesickness if he had more than one thing worth coming home to.

*

Johnny looks way too skinny, and his shirt clings to his bones, leaving nothing to the imagination. He must’ve gotten actual fucking surgery somewhere along the line, Archy thinks absently. Not like he’d have trouble affording it these days.

“Famous rocker Johnny Quid makes a comeback, eh?” he asks, smiling despite himself. “I like it.”

“Do you?” Johnny sounds pleased. His voice has deepened nicely, and Archy’s not quite sure how that one works. He also looks more or less like shit, but that’s bound to be the drugs. “I didn’t think you’d come out to a show, Uncle Arch. Not really your thing.”

It’s not, but Archy feels like he owes the boy. And don’t that come easy now. He’s proud of what Johnny’s made of himself, apart from the junkie chic he seems to be trying on lately. “My thing or not, I felt I should show some effort.” He smiles. “You’ve looked better, you know.”

“I’ve gotten quite good at sticking needles in myself, Uncle.” His teeth look like knives when he smiles.

Archy sometimes despairs of getting through to Johnny. Johnny, by design, will not be got through to. “Even so. You ought to give it a rest.”

“Nah,” Johnny says, as if Archy’s just messing about. “Thanks, though. It was decent of you to come.”

He’s got no idea if Johnny means it. “Yeah. Well, I’ve got to get back.” Unspoken is, _If Len knew I was here . . ._

Doesn’t matter, Johnny gets it. “Oh yeah? Still concerned about what the old bastard thinks, are you? _I_ gave that one up when I was about _ten_ , Uncle Arch.” And while Archy is distracted by getting defensive, Johnny’s fingers wind up around his wrist.

“John,” he says warningly.

“Going to slap me?” Johnny asks almost viciously. His voice has gone all rough and serious.

Archy’s about to say he’d never do that, but he realizes with a shock that’s not what the boy’s suggesting. “I’ve got to go,” he says sharply, pulling his wrist away. “Keep well, Jenny.” And oh, _fuck_ , he didn’t mean to—“John,” he corrects, far too late.

Johnny’s gone pale and rigid. “Night, Uncle Arch.” He turns on his heel and all but flees.

*

Johnny never expected to live past twenty-five. Fuck, when he was fifteen, he never expected to live past fifteen. But here he is, alive and well, with a full beard and no more drug habit, smoking in bed next to Archy.

If negotiation doesn’t work, being an obnoxious little fuck will sometimes do. He’s not going to go on to Archy about getting everything he ever wanted, but really, this is it. He’s got the fame, the power, the beard, the bloke. He runs his fingers over Archy’s hand, comparing the size. He supposes he’s not jealous. If he can get Archy to put aside his discomfort and smack Johnny in the mouth, Johnny’s not going to complain.

He’s not broken anything, bones or personal property, in months. He supposes that’s called maturity, but Archy would argue it’s his own careful vigilance. Probably true. Johnny’s bound to wear power badly, and they both know it.

It’s all right, Johnny thinks as Archy’s thumb presses idly into his hip. They can undoubtedly negotiate something.


End file.
